I need
to walk through silent forests where innocence breathes & trees caress the
canopy of stars. I must wander the small islands of Lindisfarne, Iona & the
like, where the weather converses with the heart & tears wash the stained
glass windows & cleanses the tired soul. Let me see the Celtic knots upon
the Holy books of monks & know the mystic Groves of chanting Druids. To dip
my fingers into Brigit’s well & kiss the selkies of legend’s tales. I must
feel the whispering mists, the whipping winds wrapping me in their winter arms.
And I shall sit upon hard cold rocks, brine washed with century´s charms. At
night I shall kneel & pray, upon land´s ancient sod & I’ll sleep deep beneath
the opal moon, upon the earth of God.
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